I never bought the idea of People Magazine’s annual “Sexiest Man On Earth” issue. It’s not that I haven’t found many of their choices to be downright yummy. They most certainly have been.
It’s just that I’ve always had the feeling that, if there were such a creature, he was probably some lanky pearl fisherman with a slightly receding hairline and lots of stamina that People would know nothing about.
The greatest watercolorist in the world might be some small, simple woman eking out a living in some dimly lit sweatshop.
And the architect who might design economical, energy-efficient homes for the masses could be the guy in the construction crew who waved you on past the orange barrels last week.
And yes. Some of the best writers I know are no longer writing.
I hate to see it happen, but I’m aware that it is one of the harsh realities of this business. I know a lot came into it with the wrong idea. They thought publishing was all about being able to write well. I know a lot failed to develop the infamous ‘thick skin’ that’s proven to be so much a part of the job description.
And some of them simply couldn’t tolerate the bullshit that so often seems to color everything, from being promotional wizards to miraculously manifesting the 30-hour day, every day, so there’s more than enough time to get it all done.
But some of the best writers I know are no longer writing.
And yeah, I know. I know this is the wayit is.
Still. The thought of losing so many fine writers makes me ill.